


Boo, Arthur

by lightning_alexander (fanficcornerwriter19)



Category: To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
Genre: Canon (?) Violence, Does It Count As Canon If Some People Think It Doesn't, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, Rating for Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21583822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanficcornerwriter19/pseuds/lightning_alexander
Summary: Jem and Scout need him. So he goes.
Kudos: 42





	Boo, Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> A short piece I wrote after rereading _To Kill a Mockingbird_ about 20 times. The style is weird, but eh.

“Cecil Jacobs is a big wet _he-en!_ ” Scout’s voice yelled suddenly. Arthur started at the noise. Was she walking home alone? In this darkness? Everyone in Maycomb but him would have difficulty seeing their hand in front of their face, even if they painted it white. No – even if he _was_ growing up, Jem wouldn’t let his sister walk home alone, even just from the grammar school. Especially not on a night like this.

Something indistinct. “ _He-y!_ ” Jem’s shout was louder than Scout’s by a bit, and the echoes lasted longer.

Was someone bothering them? Arthur stood up and went to the closest window – not that there were a great many, that was why he was used to the dark. He saw first shiny streaks of paint, then bare feet under the paint, and then the figure of an almost-thirteen-year-old boy, his back to Arthur. Jem and Scout, then.

But Atticus was at home; Arthur had seen him earlier. Who, then, was the man behind the children?

“Run, Scout!” Jem screamed. Arthur jumped. “Run! Run!” The child with what appeared to be a ham costume on ran. One giant bound and suddenly she was down, flailing.

“Jem, Jem, help me, Jem!”

Jem obeyed; he scrambled close and yanked her up. Together they ran for the road – Arthur watched with bated breath and electrified limbs – and they were nearly there when a man grabbed Jem by the arm and fairly wrenched him backwards.

The boy hit the ground, but Arthur was already moving. He had seen the children’s pursuer, and the only way he could describe his mental state in the years following the incident was insane with fury. Bob Ewell, and the flash of a knife, was all he needed to see. He dashed to the kitchen, felt for the knife-block, seized the biggest one, and flew to the study, where he had left his shoes. Jem screamed, and he bolted for the door, forgetting to completely shut it in his hurry.

Scout had run back in Jem’s direction, and was now engaged in a rather one-sided tussle with Ewell for her breath and her life. Jem lay on the ground – he could help Jem later. Scout first.

Savagely, Arthur clamped his hands around Ewell’s throat and tugged. He hadn’t had any idea of what to do with the knife once he had Bob Ewell cornered, but he saw the unprotected blank of the shirt front and simply _stabbed._ He drove it in with all his weight, with one more almighty shove for good measure. One more second and he reeled upright, thinking, vaguely, _Jem and Scout, find Jem and Scout._ Suddenly the fury drained from him, leaving him breathless and clammy with sweat. He gasped, great heaving gasps that felt too big for his thin chest.

The air choked him. He must not be used to it. He must’ve coughed his lungs out, there on the dirt beside the old schoolyard oak. Must’ve scared Scout, too, because she said, “Jem?” twice. Once he’d got his breath back, he felt ready to go to bed; a hermit wasn’t really suited for murder, he thought sardonically. But there was still Jem.

Jem seemed heavier than an almost-thirteen-year-old had any business being. Trying to breathe more evenly, Arthur groaned through the dryness in his throat as he heaved Jem towards the road.

“Atticus…?”

He had no breath left to reply or to call Scout to follow; he must get the injured Jem to care first. The staggering walk to the Finch front yard seemed like an eternity, especially with the still silence behind him instead of the metronome steps of Scout. He gasped for the breath to call for Atticus, but the man himself was already running down the steps to take some of Jem’s weight off his hands.

In the confusion that ensued, Arthur followed Atticus and Jem to a room that must belong to Jem, and leaned into the corner to calm down. He shut his eyes – after the darkness outside, it was too bright inside the Finch house, so happy in form and spirit much of the time and so fraught with anxiety now. The woman Alexandra Finch grew up to be attended distractedly to Scout in the hall. The costume better be off; it was crushed when Scout fell, and it must be hurting her.

Presently a car pulled up outside the house, and Dr. Reynolds entered. He didn’t seem to notice Arthur in the corner; if he did, he didn’t say anything. He bent to examine his patient, but the moment his hands touched Jem the boy kicked feebly, scoring a hit on the good doctor’s hip. Dr. Reynolds had to put him under to get a good look. “He’s got a bump on the head, probably hit it on something,” he said to Atticus, who waited anxiously by Jem’s head. “Besides that and the broken arm, he’s fine. I’ll go see to Scout now, though it looks like nothing but shock.”

Atticus nodded.

Arthur was now remembering why he should’ve gone home once Jem was in Atticus’s arms. The presence of so many people almost physically pressed on him; already his palms were clammy. Not wanting to get the nice walls dirty, he crossed his arms. Atticus remained in the room. If he had been the sort of parent to flit anxiously, he would’ve resembled a gnat around the horse rump of Jem’s bed. As it was, his face showed his turmoil. At least he didn’t seem to want Arthur to talk. Arthur wasn’t sure he could, really.

Besides, after that trial, he knew what he wanted to say to Atticus, but not how to say it.

Time became a blur. Alexandra came in, and then Dr. Reynolds, and then a man called Heck who must be the sheriff, because Scout climbed into Atticus’ lap and related to him how she thought the incident must’ve happened.

He must’ve drifted half-asleep, somehow, because the next thing he remembered was Scout’s finger coming halfway up and then jerking back down in the echoes of “Why there he is, Mr. Tate, he can tell you his name.”

Arthur brought his hands down to grip the wall as three pairs of eyes turned to look at him. The wall brought him no relief, so he hooked his thumbs in his belt. _Someone say something. Will anyone break this damned silence? Will they figure it out? Will I go to court?_ The thought of being forced to endure the scrutiny of a whole courtroom full of people made him shudder.

He caught Scout’s gaze coming out of it, though, and the wonder in them melted away some of the clench in his gut. He tentatively smiled at her; he watched as her eyes grew shiny at the gesture.

“Hey, Boo.”

He would’ve said something back, if he could.

“Mr. Arthur, honey,” Atticus corrected her. “Jean Louise, this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I believe he already knows you.” You had to hand it to Atticus Finch, he could be right dry sometimes. Usually at the right time. Scout ran to Jem’s bed, which made Arthur smile again, which made Scout blush and hover her hands over Jem’s blankets.

“Ah-ah, don’t touch him,” her father said gently.

Dr. Reynolds came down the hall. “Everybody out,” he said. “Evenin’, Arthur, didn’t notice you the first time I was here.” Arthur nodded, his voice still lost to him. He would speak to Scout before he left the house. He must. He spoke to no one outside of Nathan, and Jem was unavailable. By the time Jem was awake, Arthur would be gone.

Scout noticed that he might feel more comfortable in the dark, and he happily settled into the chair, listening to a shaken Atticus Finch try to make sense of the story his daughter had told him. He would’ve tried to end his agony sooner, but he had not yet found his speech. He was too busy trying to piece out everything coming _in_ to try to make anything go _out._ If that made any sense.

Heck Tate declared firmly that he was still sheriff of Maycomb County and Bob Ewell fell on his knife, walking out to his car with a resolute note in his heavy steps. Arthur almost gasped with relief. He owed Heck, now, but that almost didn’t matter. Scout and Jem safe, Atticus at peace, and Arthur left to himself – it was almost too good to be true.

Before he knew it, Atticus himself stood before him. Arthur remembered Atticus a bit from boyhood; Finch’s Landing was twenty miles east, but they had relatives in Maycomb, and Atticus in particular had been well-known. One-Shot Finch had grown from a solid, sharp boy to a solid, sharp man – square-cut features, intelligent dark eyes, and hardworking shoulders and hands. From what Arthur had heard of the trial, and from what he saw in Jem and Scout, the soul behind the rock exterior was enough to make anyone tremble. That was what Arthur did now.

“Thank you for my children, Arthur.”

Suddenly the link was formed in Arthur’s mind, and he would’ve said it if he could. _No need. They’re my children too,_ he wanted to say. He stood up instead, awkwardly, and had to sit down again from the strength of the coughing fit that struck him. Struggling to his feet once more, he turned to Scout and boldly nodded at the front door. _Jem._ He would never speak to Jem, but he had to see him again.

Once again Scout intuited his wish, and led him in, where Alexandra sat by Jem’s bed and greeted him as awkwardly as he silently did her. Somehow he managed to get close to Jem, even to touch him, both of which wishes Scout divined with surprising understanding. Once that was done, he wanted to leave. He had kept the Finches safe. That was all he went to do, anyhow.

He had not yet spoken to Scout.

All the way to the porch he struggled to shore up his voice to attack the barrier that kept it from leaving his mouth, and finally, when they stopped at the steps, he managed it. “Will you take me home?”

Scout thought better of leading him back by the hand, apparently, since she arranged it so the neighbourhood gossips would be satisfied with what they saw. Arthur couldn’t have cared less, as unless Jem and Scout needed him again he wouldn’t come out anymore, but Scout still lived in society, and she was a child yet.

Opening and closing the door seemed strange to Arthur. He’d been opening and closing doors all his life, but the front door was strange to him, especially from the outside. His courage would not carry him through another syllable to Scout, so he went inside to parcel out the night’s events alone.

Looking back, he saw Scout Finch standing in front of the porch window, her back to him, and he had a feeling she was now seeing what he’d seen, these past years.


End file.
